I've Got Your Six
by rhinosgirl
Summary: "I've got your six" does not just refer to Gibbs and Tony keeping each other safe. A series of one-shots in which they look out for each other in practical ways in everyday life. It will be updated as inspiration strikes!
1. Selling The House

**A/N: All publicly recognisable characters and settings belong to Someone In America. Anything verifiable belongs to Whoever, Whatever, or Wherever verifies them. Everything else belongs to me.**

CREEEAAAAK! Please, no, don't wake up, Boss.

Squeak! I hope that was a mouse.

Screek! That one moved.

Tony exhaled heavily and wiped his sweaty palms on the legs of his Armani trousers. Phew, he had made it to the cobbled garden path in one piece, but he felt like he had taken his life into his hands in getting there. The rickety steps and the moonless night coupled together to make an extremely hazardous exit.

He listened carefully for any indication of movement inside the house. The Boss had finally fallen asleep after being awake for nearly 48 hours solving a marathon case and preventing the deaths of four innocent people. The whole team had reconvened at Gibb's house for a debrief and takeout party. Ducky, Jimmy, McGee and Bishop had not stayed long, but Abby had stayed to help Tony and Gibbs clean up the pizza boxes and plastic containers, and other assorted detritus. Tony had stayed even longer, keeping his friend company until Gibbs had fallen asleep in front of the glowing embers of the fire in the living room. Tony had covered him with a warm blanket, turned out the lights, and left. Now that Gibbs was asleep, Tony did not want to wake him. After about a minute, there was no noise and Tony breathed a sigh of relief.

He turned and considered the source of the peril behind him, the wooden steps leading up into Gibbs' kitchen. There was no way you are going to be able to sell this house for anywhere near a decent price, Boss, he thought. The moment they see that they'll run a million miles. Not to mention the palaver if someone falls and breaks an ankle. He fished out his flashlight and, in its dim light, he inspected the unsteady structure. I could do this, he thought as he mentally took note of the size and look of the material needed and the finished construction. Or at least most of it anyway.

Lost in thought, he hopped into his car and made his way to a nearby 24-hour Home Depot store. Mercifully it was late at night and there was not much traffic on the road, so Tony's lack of concentration did not result in anything more than a scratched bumper on his own car when he scraped a barrier as he was turning a corner.

Finding the carpark almost abandoned, Tony parked close to the entrance and ran in. In the practically empty warehouse-like building, he was able to find an attendant almost straight away, and they worked together to quickly get everything he needed, aided by the painted woodchip he'd broken off the side of Gibbs' stairs. The helpful staff member also threw in some extra advice in regards to health and safety.

"Tony! What are you doing here? Have you got any idea of the time?" Tony looked up from where he was setting up to start cutting planks of wood and grinned at the NCIS Auto Workshop employee.

"Hi, Simon! Surprise for the Boss. I almost got killed by his steps tonight, so I thought I would build him some more," he explained, exaggerating a little for effect and sympathy.

"Are you sure you should be handling power tools at this time of night? I could do that part for you," Simon offered.

Tony contemplated the offer. He really wanted to do it all himself, but since he had decided to include NCIS, there was insurance and liability to consider if anything went wrong.

"Okay, thanks," he reluctantly acquiesced.

As Simon finished cutting out each shape, Tony picked up a piece of sandpaper and starting sanding.

"Tony!" Simon admonished. "That's what this is for." He picked up the electric sander.

"I know. But Boss does it all by hand, so I will too," Tony informed him, and continued his task.

Simon shrugged his shoulders and started in on the next plank.

In short order, the small flight of steps was built (mostly by Simon, partly by Tony) and painted a light navy blue (totally by Tony, not at all by Simon).

"What now?" Simon enquired.

"How long will it take to dry?" Tony yawned.

Simon looked at his watch. "It'll be ready for transport at about 8am."

"Seven?" Tony argued.

Simon raised his eyebrows in amusement. "Are you trying to negotiate with a coat of paint?" he chuckled.

Tony smirked. "See you at seven!" he called as he went out to his car, crawled into the back seat and fell asleep.

"What on earth is going on?" Gibbs grumbled. "If someone is trying to break in, they are making a hell of a noise doing it! Not to mention, it is broad daylight." He checked his watch. 8:18am. After the epic investigation they had just wound up, his team would all be still asleep. He yawned. Heck, _he_ should still be asleep. He put down his tools and jogged up the basement steps to investigate the banging and thunking that he could hear outside, but definitely on his property. He flung open the door to confront the would-be intruders.

"DiNozzo! What ARE you doing?" he yelled. There were broken wooden slats everywhere, the grass was littered with chipped paint, and there was a container of spilled nails by Tony's knee.

"Good morning, Boss!" he greeted cheerily. "I'm dismantling your steps."

"I can see that," growled Gibbs, with folded arms. "You do realise I can't get out of my house now?"

Tony scrutinised his mentor's face, and took note of the bags under Gibb's eyes and the hard set of his jaw. "Looks like you could do with a few days enforced house arrest," he remarked. "But since I can't do that, come back in half an hour." He shooed the older man back into the house, and was surprised when Gibbs not only went, but actually left him alone for exactly 30 minutes.

"Where did you find those?" He gazed at the newly erected blue steps, perfectly fitted in place of the old ones.

Tony ignored the question. "Look, Boss! You can sell your house now! Six steps, all safe!" He ran up and down them twice and was ecstatic when none of them moved an inch. So he ran up them to stand by the older man.

Six? That doesn't sound right, Gibbs thought. As he watched the young man, he counted. "Five, DiNozzo, five. If you can't even count, you definitely need food and sleep. Come on." He clapped his hand on Tony's shoulder, but Tony pulled away.

"One, two, three, four, five, SIX!" he chanted as landed on the ground.

Gibbs chuckled. "That last isn't a step, Tony. It's the ground!"

Tony turned around and planted both his feet on the fifth step. He then slowly moved until both his feet were planted on the ground. "So what would you call that?" he challenged.

"A step," Gibbs groaned.

Tony beamed. "One, two, three, four, five, SIX!" he repeated.

As they entered the house, Gibbs thought of something. "DiNozzo, why am I selling my house?"


	2. Swinging

**A/N: This story has had such a phenomenal response, I was absolutely blown away! Thanks so much to everyone who has reviewed, followed and favourited it. Thanks also to those who pointed out that I called Jimmy "Gerald". Jimmy is now Jimmy!**

Tony bounded out of bed. Tonight was the night. His thoughts involuntarily focused themselves on the evening's activities. As he stood in front of his chest of drawers and chose his suit for work, he was also mentally choosing his outfit for that night's plans. The green shirt, he decided, with the blue jeans. No, the red shirt. Or maybe the yellow?

Rrriipp! He stared disconsolately at the material that had caught on the drawer handle and had practically rent the shirt in two. Well, definitely not the yellow one, he grimaced. That's pretty much only useful as a rag for the cleaning lady now. I hope I still stand out in the red one, I just wish I knew what the venue's like. Oh well, nothing I can do about it now.

I'll have to make sure my hands and feet are perfectly clean. No telling what they might touch, he grinned as he showered. What the heck? He put his hands on his dry brown hair, and they came back all gooey. Idiot! He berated himself. That's body wash, not shampoo, and you haven't even wet your head yet! He hastily washed his hair, dried and clothed himself, and made it to the kitchen without further incident.

I wonder if I need to provide food afterward, he mused as he assembled the ingredients for pancakes. Holding the bag of flour in one hand he reached up to grab the ladle from the utensil hook above him.

"Ow!" He dropped the bag of flour on the bench and hopped around on one foot while vigorously rubbing his left big toe. He surreptitiously peeked at the injured digit. No blood, no bone. That's good, because I'd hate to have to postpone _again_. Stupid cupboard! He took a deep breath and refocused onto the task at hand. Eventually the pancakes were eaten, the bench cleared, and the dishwasher stacked.

Ultimately, Tony did make it to his car. Opening the back door, he draped his blue jeans and green shirt over the back of the seat ready to change into after work. I'm going to be late, he realised. I hope Boss doesn't make me work overtime to compensate. Not tonight. Tomorrow, yes. But not tonight. I'll beg on my knees if I have to!

Resisting the temptation to run three red lights, use his siren twice, and speed five times, Tony did arrive late – by three minutes. Luckily for him, nobody was there to witness it.

"Big date, DiNozzo?"

Tony jumped so high we could have sworn there was a hole in the roof above his desk.

"Uh, hi, Boss," he stuttered. "No, no date at all, bug or small. I do have some possible leads on a cold case, though. I'm just waiting for the results of a test from Abby."

"Two very good reasons for you to be researching The Swinger's Bar on company time. Do I even want to know?" Gibbs asked, raising his brow.

Tony gathered up a pile of papers. "Going to see Abby, Boss."

Gibbs saw that the Web Browser on DiNozzo's computer was still open. I definitely do not want the Director seeing that, he seethed. Coming closer, curiosity got the better of him and he scanned the page. Well, that explains a lot, he grinned.

He closed the Browser, grabbed his keys, left a scribbled note on his desk, detoured to the men's locker room, grabbed a broken object that had been sitting there for a couple of days, and left NCIS.

It did not take him long to finish his errand. In fact, he realised when he arrived back at the Yard, he hadn't even been missed yet. He breathed a deep sigh in relief. I don't know how I'd explain how this came to be in my hand, not the locker room. He put the broken item back exactly where he found it, along with a small package. I'd better not try and fix it. I might break it even further, he admitted.

I've got to get going soon, Tony fretted, or the shop will be shut and I might as well not go anywhere tonight. He anxiously watched the clock tick ever closer to 5:30pm.

He arrived at the shop at 5:27pm.

"Heya, Tony, what do you need today?"

"I'm playing flamenco at The Swinger's Bar tonight."

He opened his guitar case. "I need some –" That's when he saw the small packet sitting on top of this instrument. He opened it, and barked out a puzzled laugh. I must be going nuts. I'm sure I had to buy these. He shook his head and smiled reassuringly at the store clerk. "I need my guitar restrung, please." He handed over the guitar and the packet. While he was waiting he sat down in the waiting area to read the note.

_**I think this needs six strings. Good luck.**_


	3. A Kiwi Encounter

**A/N: I wrote this story to add my "two cents worth" to a couple of debates: a) including non-American slang in NCIS stories, and b) who invented the pav?**

"What am I going to do now?" Tony muttered as he walked away from the charred and broken building. They hadn't even really been needed. NCIS were only called because Director Vance's great-niece-in-law was an employee of the business, and there had been rumours that the fire had been a convoluted threat toward the man. In fact, the restaurant fire had been found to be an arson, the result of a dispute between the owner and his head chef. The head chef had been arrested and charged. Job done. Right? Wrong! Actually, this crime scene made a lot more work for Tony.

"Where've ya been, DiNozzo? On a tiki tour?" Gibbs asked. "We're needed back at NCIS, not here in the wop-wops."

Tony stopped short. "You have been listening," he whooped. "And you even used those terms correctly!"

"Couldn't do much but listen to ya," Gibbs snorted. "You've been spouting nothing but 'Kiwi talk' since you met that woman. Now, you gonna answer my question?"

"Taking a squiz at something, Boss," Tony answered enigmatically.

"Is it pertinent to a case?" Gibbs waited impatiently for Tony to unlock the car.

DiNozzo slid into the driver's seat. "Kinda." He heaved a plastic bag over onto the back seat, noting the annoyance in his friend's tone. "Problem, Boss?"

"You gonna be the one to tell the Director his great-niece-in-law has just been arrested and charged with a felony?" Gibbs mocked.

"Nope, you can have that honour, Boss!" he capitulated cheerily.

"Gee, thanks!" Remembering the agent's earlier answer, Gibbs shot him a quizzical look. "How can something be 'kinda' related to a case? And what's in the bag?"

Tony considered. "Guess it can't so I guess it's not." Gibbs waited, but the contents of the bag remained a mystery. Once they returned to NCIS, Tony took the bag with him, and delivered it straight to Abby in Forensics. Then he returned to the Bullpen and started on his paperwork.

"Pinterest, Tony?" Tim jeered.

Tony jumped and quickly minimised his Internet browser. Turning to his teammate, he scowled menacingly. "Superglue, McGee?"

Tim McGee scarpered, muttering under his breath.

Tony went back to his research, and quickly printed off the pages he needed before tucking them into his bag, reassured that he had gotten everything he needed to get to pull off his date, change of venue notwithstanding. Eager to start on his preparations, he repeatedly jabbed the elevator button to take him to Abby's lab.

Lost in his anxiety, the voice startled him. "Don't break the merchandise, DiNozzo."

"Boss!" Tony glanced over his shoulder, but his co-workers didn't react to his frightened squeal. "I thought you were up with the Director!"

Gibbs stood in the elevator door not quite hiding his amusement. "That was the easy-peasy part of my afternoon. The hard part was having to leave to retrieve something somebody left behind this afternoon. It meant I had to go out, come back, and then take that something down to Abby's lab," Gibbs shrugged. "Everything ready for the big date tonight?"

"All sussed!" Tony beamed. "Just on my way now."

"Don't let me stop you," Gibbs smiled, stepping out of the way.

"Hey, Abby!" Tony called. "You got my stuff? Anything cark it?"

"Yeah, Tony," the Goth deadpanned. "I've got your stuff. And, no, nothing died, unless you count the meat. That's dead; at least, I think it is. Although if it was delivered to Autopsy with that much blood running out of it, Ducky'd be calling for the EMT not the scalpel." She wrinkled her nose disgustedly.

Tony chuckled as he made his way to the carpark, mentally going over the menu, obsessing over ensuring he had all the ingredients: steak, potatoes, carrots, bell peppers (just remember to call them capsicums, okay? Else she won't know what you are talking about!), cream, sugar, eggs . . . eggs? Darnit, I didn't get any eggs! He checked his watch. No time now. I'll just have to think of something else.

Tony spent the rest of his commute wracking his brain for an alternative dessert. By the time he had arrived home, he still hadn't had any brainwaves, no great ideas.

Disheartened, he began unpacking his groceries. Tucked into the side of one bag he found an extra package. Opening it, he exhaled and began cooking with renewed vigour.

"Here we go, my lady. Steak served with roast potatoes, carrots, and bell peppers, I mean capsicums."

His date laughed merrily. "At home we call that "Meat And Three Veg". A true Kiwi meal, makes me feel right at home!"

Tony gave a self-satisfied smirk. "Tony DiNozzo + international date + research, and Bob's your Uncle!" he chortled merrily. "Just wait until you see what I've got for afters!"

Nearly one hour, one bottle of champagne, and much conversation later, Tony brought in dessert. "And now for our gastronomic pleasure, I give you one of the very few puddings invented by a New Zealander – the Six-Egg Pavlova!"

**A/N: All Kiwi slang interpretations can be found on Google, or you can PM me, if you like.**


	4. It's Ok, Boss

**A/N: I originally wanted this to be the last story of this series of one-shots. But my muse has had other ideas and I now have an idea that naturally follows it, so I am posting it now.**

Tony hesitated with his hand on the doorknob. In all his visits to Gibbs' house, this was one room he'd never entered, never even thought of entering, never even thought of thinking of entering. It was hallowed ground, overflowing with remembrances of happier days and sunnier times.  
Taking a deep breath he tamped down his misgivings. You can do this, he told himself. Boss is counting on you. Exhaling sharply, he opened the door to his mentor's' bedroom.  
Even keeping his eyes on his destination and moving quickly, he couldn't deny the nostalgic aura that permeated the air. The subtle hint of a lady's perfume, the slightly stained child's stuffed toy, peeking out from the top shelf, the scent, still pleasantly aromatic, of a thirty-year-old potpourri, had now been joined by a trace of gun oil and petrol. Swallowing past the lump that appeared unbidden to obstruct his windpipe, he placed his gift on the bed in front of him.

"Sleep well, Boss," he whispered, before turning and leaving the house as hastily as he could, ensuring it was locked behind him.

A jaded Leroy Jethro Gibbs wearily opened his bedroom door. The preceding week had taken away every last remnant of energy and willpower he possessed. Being informed of the death of his father, his only surviving parent, his only surviving _relative_, while he was on a case. The recurring argument with Leon as to whether he should be in Stillwater, Pennsylvania, working out his grief, or at NCIS working out the case. The Reading of the Will, in which, being the sole survivor of Jackson Gibbs, he was left everything. Cleaning up Stillwater General Store, which led him to the heart-breaking decision to sell it. Packing up his childhood home and discovering all manner of long-lost memories and memorabilia. The funeral with full military honours. These all combined to slowly but surely bleed all his strength away. But what was worse, far worse, was the constant stream of well-wishers. Never a sociable person anyway (he had affectionately been dubbed a 'functional mute'), the constant talking, hugging, handshaking, and nodding left him bereft of not only all his family, but all his abilities to, see, hear, talk, smell, feel, and even think.

Gibbs dropped his keys, glasses, and wallet onto the bedside table, and slumped despairingly onto his bed. He kicked off his shoes, and pulled off his jacket, throwing it over a nearby chair. Dispirited, he lay back and stared at the ceiling, much as he had done as a child. What now, Dad? he questioned inwardly, kneading his temples. Then something caught his eye, just in range of his peripheral vision. Turning his head, he saw a small plainly wrapped package. Picking it up, he recognised the distinctive script of his second-in-command and good friend, Anthony DiNozzo Jr. It read simply, "It's okay, Boss."

That night Leroy Jethro Gibbs cried for the first time since his father died. He cried for his father, his mother, his wife, his daughter. He cried himself to sleep. And all six hankies were saturated with his tears.

**A/N: In fond memory of Ralph Waite, a brilliant actor whose characters have brought joy to many. **


	5. What's In That Box?

**A/N: I know, I know, it is way early for Christmas! But after the weekend I just had I needed to write. Thank you all for the wonderful reviews, I really appreciate the support –hugs-**

It was less than three months since the death of Jackson Gibbs. The summer sun was shining once again on his son Leroy Jethro Gibbs, and the time had come to sort through the final possessions of the deceased. _Of my Dad_, Gibbs reminded himself once again, as he had had to continually and regularly remind himself since Leon had called him into the Director's office to deliver the crushing blow. He and Jackson had only recently began to seriously work at repairing their relationship. Now he was gone. Forever.

"Hey, Boss!" a cheery voice snapped him out of his maudlin thoughts. He turned and smiled wanly at the approaching figure.

"DiNozzo," he greeted. "Come to get your hands dirty?"

Tony surreptitiously scanned the boxes surrounding the older man. Finally his eyes lighted on the one he wanted. Now, if he could just gain access to it, unsupervised and unobserved.

"Sure thing," he agreed. "Where'd you want me to start?"

"Pick a box, any box," Gibbs waved his arm around the yard.

Score! Tony exulted inwardly and moved straight for the target, his Boss' photos.

SEVERAL MONTHS LATER:

It was Leroy Jethro Gibbs' first Christmas Day as an orphan, and the only surviving member of his family. But there had been no time for sadness, due to the steady stream of visitors and well-wishers he had had for the past 24 hours.

Yesterday saw the arrival of Tony.

"I knew you wouldn't have a tree," he huffed, pulling an enormous leafy Scotch Pine behind him. "Help me, would ya?"

After some effort, the tree was in place and the two men sat down for a well-earned rest. "Time to decorate," Tony announced.

Gibbs groaned. He lay his head back and took another swig of Bourbon. He looked up in surprise as he felt a large gift-wrapped package being pressed into his hands

"Uh, Tony?" Gibbs spluttered. "It's not Christmas until tomorrow."

"Open it anyway," Tony directed. He waited patiently for his friend to remove the gaudy paper. Meticulous at the best of times, he seemed to be excruciatingly so today.

Gibbs stared in awe at the six glass baubles nestled in the silk-lined display case on his knee. He picked each one up and reverently ran his hands over the intricate decorations on them.

"How . . . when . . . " he stammered.

"I know a guy*," Tony grinned mischievously.

Soon after came the first of the visitors, Ellie Bishop and her husband. Jimmy Palmer and his heavily pregnant wife Breena dropped in as well, as did Leon Vance and his children.

Today had started with finding Abby asleep on his sofa.

"I didn't want to go home after Midnight Mass," she explained.

So she had just let herself in and curled up in the living room beside the tree. And added to the ever-growing pile of presents, if his eyes didn't deceive him, Gibbs mused amusedly.

Then there was Ducky.

"I made entirely too much pudding for just one person," he elucidated.

He also added to the accumulation under the tree.

A surprise visitor for the "quiet Christmas lunch" (which was what Tony had assured Gibbs it would be) was Tim.

"My flight got cancelled," he announced.

And added even more gifts to the hoard.

The festivities lasted well into the afternoon. The "functional mute" was content to mostly watch, and marginally participate in, the gift giving, lunch, party games and music that blended together to fill his day with the Christmas tidings of "Joy To The World" and "Peace on earth, and goodwill to men".

And looking over them all from their vantage point in the silk-lined display case were the five members of Gibbs Family, Jackson, Anne, Shannon, Kelly, and Leroy, and their unofficial family motto "Semper Fi" – sharing Christmas together, now and forevermore.

**I know a guy* Many thanks to ReneesWings, for allowing me to use this quote out of her brilliant story "Free Falling" which I highly recommend! Thanks, Renee x –hugs-**


	6. Options

**A/N: I had a fight with my landlord and had to get my frustrations out somehow, hehe! **

Tony ran. And ran. And ran.

Finally he flopped down on a park bench overlooking the river he had been following on his early morning cathartic jog. At least it was meant to be cathartic. But, as he checked his mental state, he realised it hadn't worked. Now he was just mad _and _exhausted. Catching his breath, he took a quick look around. Nope, there was nobody he knew in sight.

Tony stood up and ripped off his sweat-soaked top. Bare from the waist up, he strode purposefully to the edge of the river.

"AAAAAA-YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-OOOOOOOOOOOO-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

Tony screamed out his frustration, beating his chest like an alpha-male silverback gorilla, then sank down to sit on the grass, rubbing his jaw and staring at the opposite riverbank. Great, he thought, now I'm mad and exhausted _and_ sore! Can this day get any worse?

"Feeling better, DiNutzo?" A jovial, yet slightly mocking voice snapped him out of his reverie.

Yep, Tony groaned inwardly, it can. "Hi, Tobias," he croaked out. Great, mad and exhausted andsore _and_ hoarse _and_ Fornell! "I'm fine, thanks." He hurriedly rose and gathered up all his belongings. "Gotta go, see you later."

"Bye." Tobias watched the younger man disappear into the distance before he pulled out his phone.

"Aw, crap!" Tony groaned again, this time audibly. Leroy Jethro Gibbs was sitting on the hood of his car and Tony couldn't tell whether he was furious or concerned. Of course Fornell couldn't keep his nose out of my business! Tony seethed. "Hi, Boss!" he greeted cheerily, grateful that a bottle of water and a leisurely walk back had restored his voice to somewhere near normality.

"Hi, Tarzan," Gibbs amusedly acknowledged him, and Tony relaxed once he saw the twinkle in his friend's eye. "Gonna return to your human form anytime soon?"

"Getting there. Do you want to come around for lunch?" Tony invited him. "I've got last night's leftovers I can heat up. That is, if I've still got kitchen appliances," he grimaced.

Gibbs lifted an eyebrow questioningly.

"Long story," Tony opened his car door to avoid eye contact with his interrogator. "See you at home."

Half an hour later, Gibbs was seated at Tony's kitchen table and tucking into a tasty lunch of reheated Italian Meatballs and fresh garlic bread. Eventually, he broke the silence. "Ya need money, Tony?"

Tony's head snapped up, his face reddened with embarrassment. "No, Boss, I don't need _money_," he stressed.

Gibbs was confused. "So why are your kitchen appliances in danger of being repossessed? What do you need?"

"A new Super and building owner?" Tony answered, half joking, half serious. Then, it was like a dam broke, and all the stress of the last two weeks came pouring out. "Honestly, Boss, never move into a fully furnished apartment unless you actually buy the stuff that's already there outright first. It is just not worth it!" He took a deep breath and endeavoured to explain himself. "It seems the Super is getting tired of people calling him at all hours of the day and night to come and fix stuff. He's threatening to persuade the owner to strip the building of all furnishings that don't belong to the tenants. And he'd do it too, I reckon!"

"But maintenance is his job!" Gibbs protested.

Tony shrugged. "He'd still be employed to oversee the heating system and doors and windows and all that stuff. But if has his way everything else would go, and the apartment would be bare except for the bed, a dresser and the dining suite. Everything else is theirs. I'd have to replace it all, deal with the renovators, live here through the renovations, alienate myself from other tenants, listen to the incessant moaning of the Grade-A a-hole Super, and risk eviction from the Grade-A dipwad owner."

"If the worse came to the worst, you could always stop at mine for a while," Gibbs offered.

"Thanks," Tony grinned his first genuine smile in many a day.

Three days later, his grin grew a hundredfold when he opened a large envelope marked "You Have Options". Inside were five furnishings catalogues; Kitchen, Bathroom, Laundry, Living Room, and Interior Decorating; and one Real Estate catalogue marked "As a last resort".

Six catalogues and countless options rolled the weight of the world right off Tony's shoulders, and he slept.

**A/N: I honestly don't know where Fornell came from! He just appeared and wouldn't leave, so I had to work around him.**


	7. Plans and Paper

**A/N: Thanks for your continuing encouragement and reviews. This could be seen as a work-centred story, but the plot bunny wouldn't leave me alone, so I decided to include in anyways! X**

"What is he doing here?" Tony DiNozzo hissed as he caught sight of Richard Parsons, the one man he despised most in all the world, entering the Director's office. He still held a grudge against the Department of Defence investigator for the way he had targeted Gibbs while investigating alleged corruption in NCIS Headquarters.

Tim McGee shrugged his shoulders. Not prepared to allow _that guy _to distract him from his work for even one second, he continued tapping away at his keyboard as he answered, "I have no idea, Tony. And, until I am forced to face a situation involving that creep, and make a choice between working with him or not, I am going to completely ignore that fact that he is even alive!"

"He picked the right time to visit. It's a pity he couldn't have delayed his arrival for a month and six days," Tony mused.

"Huh?" Tim grunted, scrupulously comparing his printout with the lab results Abby had emailed him.

"C'mon, Tim! You know it's Halloween coming up next month. We could be pranking him in the most humungous way possible!" Tony protested.

That caught Tim's attention, and his head snapped up. "We? Do I look like I have a death wish? No, I don't. I look like I just want to get on with my job without worrying about being fired because I got involved with one of your childish schemes!" Tim chided.

"Seriously, Tim!" By now, Tony was exasperated at his colleague's disinterest. "Think about it. If it were a month from now, we would have all the supplies we would need to seriously bring him down a peg or ten. With your research skills, and my planning and reconnaissance skills, we could reduce him to the pile of squishy muck that he actually is."

"Leave me out of it," Tim said flatly.

"Really, McBoring?" Tony sneered. "You can't think of one, just one, way in which you'd like to see that smarmy snake brought down? The Pursuer of Gibb, the Believer of Lies, the Hater of . . . "

"I never said that," Tim interrupted. The truth was, he was desperate to do exactly what Tony was suggesting. Richard Parsons had made more than one enemy during his time at NCIS. "But I am not willing to risk my job, my career, my future, simply for the sake of revenge. I just don't think this is the time and place for this conversation, that's all." Finally, his eyes met those of his friend's, and they were sparkling. "Meet me at my place tonight. Bring beer."

That night, Gibbs went for a drive. He was in a quandary. Theoretically, he should report what he heard in the Bullpen. Technically, Tony and Tim had both expressed a desire to hurt another human being within the confines of the NCIS building. But in reality, no actual threats had been uttered, and no specific plans made. His mind made up, he turned his car around and drove the other way.

"Bye, McSo-Not-Boring!" Tony called out cheerfully. As he approached his car, he noticed something different - there was a plastic bag hanging on his side mirror. He opened it carefully, and chortled.

It contained a picture of a car, a street address, a six-pack of toilet paper, and a note: USE WISELY!

**A/N: Once again, a character gate-crashes my story. At least this time, McGee took a leading role, hehe.**


End file.
